


Watching

by Kale12



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, HEA, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, a teeny tiny little bit of voyeurism, this was just supposed to be smut but i have no chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 21:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20973413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kale12/pseuds/Kale12
Summary: He’d encountered this scene before - Hermione with her hair up, skirts flaring, chin tilted up at her partner in glowing pleasure. The angle of her hips, the way her fingers drummed on Wood’s shoulder in time to the beat - all corresponding so exactly to the image locked away in his mind, markeddo not touch, not ever, not yours.





	Watching

* * *

“This place has entirely too many windows,” said Harry, for what was perhaps the fourth or fifth time that afternoon.

He watched Hermione turn away from him, ostensibly to levitate one of the carefully labelled boxes to its appropriate destination, but more likely so that she could roll her eyes without him seeing. He still knew, though. Just like he knew that the ward schemes for the muggle flat, with its open floor plan and huge picture windows, were going to be a right headache. 

“Could have got yourself a nice, cozy little place off of Diagon, Herms,” said Ron, cheerfully oblivious to the baleful looks from Hermione’s corner of the room. “Wouldn’t have to lug all your books up, now would we?”

Hermione threw a badly embroidered pillow at him, and missed spectacularly. “You’ve only made the one trip, you lazy git.” She paused and threw another, this time hitting his shoulder. “I shrank everything.”

“Still,” Ron shrugged, lobbing the pillow off to Harry, who neatly tossed it onto a recently restored chaise. “Don’t see why you’re leaving magical London, let alone Grimmauld. You’re not even moving in with Ollie. What’s poor Harry to do all by his lonesome?”

Poor Harry, indeed. His stomach clenched a little. Hermione had given him very little warning before announcing she wanted some space and some light, in that order, and that she’d found the most darling flat, and that once she’d hooked the floo up, it would be as though she’d never left. Which begged the question of why she needed to leave in the first place, but Harry didn’t trust himself to ask without exposing his own neediness. 

“I’m sure Harry won’t even notice,” Hermione said lightly, not quite meeting Harry’s eyes. “And Oliver and I are hardly serious enough to be taking a step like that.”

Ron snorted. “Does Ollie know that? Because he’s about this close to getting ‘Property of Hermione Granger’ tattooed on his arse.”

“Ron! Must you be so astonishingly vulgar?”

“For a girl who hates flying, you sure know how to get those quidditch players wrapped around your ink-stained little fingers,” Ron teased. “Me, Krum, Wood. Am I missing anyone, Harry?”

“McClaggen,” he grunted. 

“Really, you two. Are you ever going to let me live down Slughorn’s party?” asked Hermione in exasperation. 

“Not at school,” Harry bit out. “At Susan Bones’ engagement party.”

Hermione gaped. “How did you - ? I never told -. _ We left separately._” 

Ron guffawed. “What are you surprised about? He’s always got one eye on you, one on me, and one on everyone else. And maybe half an eye on Malfoy.”

Harry slugged him silently, but didn’t disagree. 

“That doesn’t even make sense!” Hermione exclaimed.

“Why not? He’s still got his glasses, doesn’t he? He’s a four-eyed, paranoid bastard.”

“That’s Luna-logic if I ever heard it,” Hermione sighed, shaking her head. “And you’re still off by half an eye.”

“Add it to your account, then,” Ron replied smoothly. “How else would he keep track of the blokes you’ve shagged?”

“Ron! That’s no one’s business but my own! And Harry doesn’t give a fig about that, do you, Harry?” Hermione turned towards him, uncertainty writ large across her face. 

“Just making sure you’re safe, Hermione,” Harry said, before turning abruptly. “I should finish up the wards.” 

“You going to use the mirror whatsits you’re working on with George?” Ron asked, as though he hadn’t just casually destroyed what was left of Harry’s composure. 

“Yeah,” he said. “We reckon we’ve ironed out most of the bugs. Still having a little trouble getting all the mirrors to respond to a central command. I’ve got it set to stream straight to the master at Grimmauld for now, Mione, but I’ll show you how to make them start and stop.”

“That’s fine,” she said, waving him off. “Thank you for setting it up, but I do think it’s a bit over the top.”

“Humor me,” he said drily. 

“Yes, but -”

“Don’t argue with me on this, Hermione,” Harry said flatly. “I have enough nightmares about you screaming.” 

Hermione had the grace to look slightly abashed, and Harry decided to finish his task before he gave himself something else to regret. 

* * *

When he made it back to the sitting room a few hours later, it had been completely unpacked, and the kitchen seemed to be at least halfway there. 

“You don’t have to move in all at once, you know,” he said, trying to joke, and somehow half-pleading instead. 

“Oh! Harry, you scared me. I forgot you were back there.”

“Is Ron still here?”

“No,” she said, pursing her lips as she looked through the cabinets, copper cauldron in hand. “Luna’s got a Quibbler board meeting - he was off playing dutiful spouse with takeaway. Are you staying for dinner?” 

“Would I be welcome?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry.”

“Then why haven’t you looked me in the eye once today?” he asked softly.

She set the cauldron down and met his eyes, and he wished he hadn’t asked. Her expression was so forlorn that he wanted to pull her close and tell her he’d do whatever she asked if she’d only leave this stupid flat and come back where she belonged.

He looked down at his hands. “I just, I don’t understand why you suddenly feel like you have to move out. Was it something I did? I’ll wash up more, and I know the dining room table is always a mess, but honestly, Hermione, you know I work best there.”

“Harry, stop,” she said, clearly distressed. “I promise, it’s not about you at all. You’ve been a wonderful housemate.” She looked at him imploringly, but his expression of disbelief didn’t waver. She sighed gently when he didn’t respond. “Did you know I’ve never lived on my own? I just went from my parents to Hogwarts, and then to one flatmate or another for years. I always thought I’d spend my twenties learning to do things on my own, and instead I’ve just gotten hopelessly dependent on you all.”

Harry ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “I don’t see why that’s so bad a thing. You’d pitch a fit if I told you I didn’t need you anymore. I’ll always need you and Ron, and you should always get to need us back.”

“Please, Harry,” Hermione pleaded. “Don’t ask me anymore, I’m not ready to talk about it. This is just something I need to do.” 

“Fine,” he said. “Do what you like. But just promise me you’ll come home if you hate it and not just stick it out for the sake of your bloody pride.”

“I promise,” she said, and he knew that was the best he was going to get. 

* * *

It was Ron’s fault.

A year ago, Ron had decided to marry Luna (or rather, Luna had decided to marry Ron, and Ron had happily agreed), and so Harry had found himself in dress robes at the Burrow, exchanging happy grins with Hermione as they flanked the bride and groom. 

As Ron pledged his heart, soul, and magic to the woman beside him, Harry was suddenly deeply aware of one important thing as he caught the bright brown eyes of the maid of honor - Hermione was free. 

The realization rocked through him like spellfire. It had been years since Ron and Hermione had amicably parted ways, and still Harry had struggled to think of their best friend without the shadow of Ron’s prior claim. But Ron had made his choice, and _ he hadn’t chosen Hermione_. 

It was as though a veil had been torn from Harry’s eyes. Had he truly never noticed how utterly delicious she was? Or the devastating twist of her mouth when she was trying not to laugh? Or how mouth-wateringly soft her body had become in the years since the war?

The thought prickled at the back of his mind, all throughout the hash he made of the best man’s speech - salvaged only by George’s well-timed ripostes, and throughout the dancing - where he held Hermione entirely too close, and then promptly flung her into a surprised but willing Oliver Wood’s arms before fleeing to the bar in a blind panic. It was there, nursing a firewhiskey, that the prickle blossomed into a full memory. He’d encountered this scene before - Hermione with her hair up, skirts flaring, chin tilted up at her partner in glowing pleasure. The angle of her hips, the way her fingers drummed on Wood’s shoulder in time to the beat - all corresponding so exactly to the image locked away in his mind, marked _do not touch, not ever, not yours_. For a moment the festivities faded away, and instead he was watching Hermione at the Yule Ball, resplendent in blue, with Viktor Krum’s arms wrapped tightly around her waist. And he remembered thinking _ I want_, overwhelmed and choking with desire beyond what his adolescent brain was equipped to handle. Certain details still sprang to the forefront of his mind - the fierceness of Krum’s grip, his sloe-eyed gaze falling on her lips, the way her body had bowed against his, taut and trembling. It wasn’t obscene, not like looking at the lad mags Seamus kept under his mattress, but that same echo of lust, however restrained, had made a young Harry look away. When he had looked back, the intensity was gone, and they were simply another young couple twirling about the dance floor. 

How had he forgotten that memory? For months after, but especially in the days leading up to the second task, he had brought himself off furiously to images of Hermione captive in Krum’s arms, helpless as the larger boy thrust against her, finishing what was only barely hinted at in their dance together. Sometimes, only sometimes, she was in Harry’s own arms, warm and soft and laughing up at him as he pushed her silky robes off her shoulders. But the little edge of jealousy always made him come harder. 

Harry hadn’t thought about that in years - hardly surprising given how it had all ended, and the subsequent chaos besides. It had been buried deep (and wasn’t that just the story of his life?), and here it was resurfacing, at once strange and familiar. Electrifying. _ Terrifying_. 

“Another, please,” he said to the bartender, sliding back his glass before settling in to watch Hermione dance every remaining dance. 

A fair number of the guests recalled a pink-cheeked Miss Granger being apparated away at the end of the night by a smitten Mr. Wood. No one could quite remember Harry making his farewells, or that he was thoroughly soused, and alone. 

* * *

That had been a year ago. A torturous, confusing, anxiety-provoking year in which he could barely talk to Hermione without wanting to lay her out on the nearest surface and make her moan. He’d stare at her mouth, eyes glazed, as she ranted about work, her lips forming the most intriguing configurations as she grew steadily more passionate. He wanted to grab her arse and squeeze, wanted to twist his fingers in her hair and tug her head back, and press hot wet kisses down her throat. He wanted to talk to her about everything, which was hardly new, but now he wanted conversations in the dark, in bed, curled up around one another, skin to skin. 

It had been a year of trying to sort out the mess of his feelings, of being too afraid of risking their friendship for the possibility of something more. 

And in that year of hesitation, Oliver Wood had started coming around, whisking Hermione off to dinner in between games, and giving reporters a cheeky wink and a “no comment” when asked about his relationship with the DMLE’s senior counsel. 

Worst of all, Hermione seemed _ happy_. Ollie was their friend, and a decent bloke, besides. Maybe if they’d met earlier, before Ron had gotten married and Harry’s world had shifted. Maybe he would have given them their blessing. _ Or maybe_, whispered the little voice in Harry’s brain, the one that still called him ‘freak’ in a low hiss, _ maybe he’d just join your twisted little fantasies_. The Yule Ball had been the first time he’d imagined Hermione being taken by someone else, but it wasn’t the last. He couldn’t help but think about it with every date she went on, couldn’t help the arousal he felt as he imagined someone else’s hands on her lush body. He felt ashamed every time he gave in, wanking furiously in a haze of lust and rage, a sweet and sour afterglow. But he couldn’t stop. 

* * *

Despite her promises, Hermione didn’t come around often, and Harry abruptly realized that her absence was far worse than the torture of her being there. Grimmauld, always quiet, felt like a mausoleum. He imagined he could hear her voice, years of endless conversations echoing through the halls, discordant but lovely. 

He dreaded going home, missed the warmth of her beside him as he fixed dinner (in endless universes, Hermione Granger was endlessly capable; in none could she cook). He sulked, he drank, and then finally decided to drown himself in work. 

Only to find that the old adage about good intentions was, in fact, all too true. 

Harry, in addition to being an investor in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, was also an occasional collaborator. Hermione had been exasperated when he’d discovered a knack for runes and enchanting, not that it had stopped her from regularly dropping off books on the subject, all the while grumbling about Ron’s terrible influence and wasted time in divination. 

To this end, George had been invited over to continue refining their current project - a set of mirrors that could be tied into the wards, and that would work like security cameras, though with the added advantage of being able to note magical signatures. 

“Any luck getting the sound up, Harry?” called George from where he was fiddling with the master mirror. “Huh. What’s this now?”

“Did the dungeon mirror stop working again? Bloody Blacks and their privacy wards.”

“You’re one to talk, you randy beggar. Does Hermione know you put a mirror up in her bedroom?” George teased.

Harry startled, and then blushed. “Come off it, Weasley. You know that’s only to review in case the wards go off.”

“So you’ve never caught an eyeful?”

“George,” he warned. 

“Kidding, kidding!” he said hastily, putting his hands up. “You’re a man of honor, you are.”

“Too right. But if you’re going to be poking around, make yourself useful and check the visuals from the rest of her flat, will you? There shouldn’t be anyone home right now.”

“You sure?”

“Hermione always works late on Tuesdays,” he said absently, fiddling with a bit of gold wire. 

George whistled. “Harry, has it ever occurred to you -”

“No, George.”

“You can’t possibly know what I was going to say.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

George subsided briefly, but then yelped before Harry could let himself relax. He looked up to see a blushing redhead, mirror dropped in front of him. 

“Er, sorry, mate. Think you might have been a tetch mistaken about Hermione’s schedule.”

“She’s back already? I should floo her and ask if she’s eaten.”

“I doubt she’ll be answering any calls tonight. She’s got her hands full with Ollie, if you catch my meaning. Good thing we haven’t fixed the sound yet.”

Harry could feel his ears burning, and tried to bury himself back into his task, only to find his concentration shattered. George left soon after, citing the lateness of the hour, but Harry hardly remembered saying goodbye, consumed as he was by the presence of the mirror not ten feet away. Curiosity burned within him. One murmured incantation and he could see for himself, the pleasure she found in someone else’s arms. He had not outgrown his boyhood impulsivity, it would seem; he moved to the shining surface and said the magic words. 

There she lay, propped up on her elbows, breasts thrust forward as she twisted helplessly. Her skin shone golden against the deep violet of the coverlet, her hips were held tightly in place by Oliver’s large, calloused hands. His face was buried between her legs, and the memory rose unbidden - _ get the snitch or die trying_. 

Harry pushed the mirror away, breathing heavily and painfully hard. As many times as he’d imagined it, he couldn’t bear to actually watch her come for someone else. 

* * *

A gang of them had gathered at the Hog’s Head, which Seamus had bought and tried to drag out of the middle ages, adding in a games lounge with both muggle snooker tables and their rather more explosive wizarding equivalent. 

Harry, wracked with equal parts guilt and desire, had only managed a brief hug and greeting with the object of his obsessions before being accosted by Ron and George, and had to content himself with sneaking glances for most of the night. She looked well enough, the low light of the bar reflected in brassy highlights off her dark curls, and her face was flushed from drinking. He wished she were close enough to pull towards him, tuck her into his side where she always fit so neatly. 

Eventually the Weasleys reached the end of their brainstorming, and Harry was free to wander in search of Hermione. He wanted desperately to know how she was doing, if she missed Grimmauld, if she missed _ him_. He wondered if he should confess to having seen her naked and writhing under her boyfriend’s ministrations. He wondered briefly if he was going to hell, or if he had already made it there. 

He spotted her out on the back porch with Ginny, perched on the railing and twisting a bottle in her hands. Their voices wafted through the screen door as he approached, and he stilled when he heard his name. 

“ - Harry believed you?” Ginny scoffed. “Don’t be daft. You can feed everyone else your story about finding yourself or whatever rot you’re coming up with it, but some of us know you better.”

“Ginny, it’s hardly important,” Hermione said unhappily. 

“Tell me. Why are you avoiding Harry?”

Harry felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. 

“It isn’t like that!” Hermione sounded to be near tears, but Harry barely noticed. “It’s just that Ollie’s been so horribly jealous, and he wanted me to move in with him and was so, so upset when I said I wasn’t ready. I thought maybe moving out on my own would be a good compromise.”

“Jealous of Harry, I take it? What, does he think you’re cheating on him?” asked Ginny. 

“No, no, nothing like that. He’s just frustrated at how slowly we’re going, and it doesn’t help that Harry and I have just gotten into such a routine since Ron got married. He pointed out just how much of my free time was earmarked for Harry, and he isn’t wrong. Oliver really does deserve more of my attention.” 

Ginny took a swig from her mug and wiped her mouth forcefully. “Ollie deserves a fantastic girlfriend, but it doesn’t have to be you, Hermione. You’re doing yourself and him both a disservice if you keep trying to talk yourself into falling in love with him. And it’s certainly not going to work while you’re in love with someone else.”

Harry couldn’t have moved from his spot if his life depended on it. His palms were clammy, knees locked, heart pounding as he listened intensely for Hermione’s reply.

Hermione scoffed. “Really, Gin, this again? Everyone’s a little bit in love with Harry, it’s impossible not to be. I shouldn’t have to tell _ you _ that.”

“Yes, that’s the point. I was a little bit in love with him, and he was a little bit in love with me. And then we promptly fell apart because that isn’t enough to build a life on. But the two of you have already built an entire life together. Why are you both so stupid? I care about you both so much, but I want to strangle you on an increasingly regular basis.”

“Ginny, why on earth would Harry settle for me? And surely something would have happened by now if it was meant to.”

“How is anything supposed to happen when you’re dating someone else? And what do you mean ‘settle’? He’s looked at you at like he wants to devour you all night and you’re in a bloody blazer.”

“The top is a bit low-cut, though, and Harry does tend to get a bit dopey around cleavage.”

“Argh!” Ginny threw up her hands. “Why are you like this? _Ron_ gets dopey around cleavage. Harry only does that around _yours_.”

“Honestly, Ginny, is there something about being a Weasley that just stamps out any sense of delicacy? Or is it just you and you brother?”

“Shut up! You’re hopeless and determined to be blind and unhappy.” 

“Ginny, please, listen to me. I can’t even think about that right now, because I have a boyfriend who treats me well and loves me, and I refuse to be the sort of person who would hold that so cheaply. I owe it to Ollie to at least try, can’t you see that?” She set her bottle down decisively. “Oliver can make me happy,” she said with determination. “He will. And I’ll make him happy, too.”

Harry wanted to vomit. He stepped away blindly, back to where their friends were still lounging, only wanting to make his goodbyes as fast as he possibly could. 

Ron looked up sharply. “Alright there, mate? You sure you want to apparate home? You look likely to splinch yourself.”

“I’m fine, Ron,” he answered tersely. “But do me a favor, yeah? If you see Hermione, tell her to stop at Grimmauld, I have a box of her stuff she forgot.”

“It’s getting late, mate. Wouldn’t you rather just pop over to her place in the morning? I’ll go with you,” offered Ron, clearly sensing something amiss. 

He tried for a smile, and landed somewhere above a grimace. “It’s fine. She’ll want it as soon as possible. Just tell her, please? And I’ll send you a patronus once I make it home.”

“Be careful, Harry,” Ron said quietly, and they both knew he wasn’t simply talking about apparating. 

* * *

Harry managed to find firewhiskey as soon as he got home. Back when Sirius had been trapped at Grimmauld, in what seemed like a lifetime ago, he’d stashed jugs of the stuff all over the house, in the strangest nooks and crannies. It happened less and less, but Harry still found the occasional cache, and each time there was a little twinge of regret. 

He wondered what Sirius would make of this mess. Laugh his head off, no doubt, before teasing him mercilessly. His godfather had always had a soft spot for Hermione - honest and loyal and easy to rile. He had trusted her, and Sirius had trusted very few in the end. 

The distinct clap of apparition shook him from his reverie, and he looked up to see Hermione framed in the doorway to the dining room. She paused and frowned as she surveyed the scene before her.

“Harry, what on earth is going on? You left so early, Ron was convinced you weren’t feeling well, and here you are drinking all by yourself. What’s gotten into you?”

“I heard you,” he said hoarsely, and watched the confusion on her face slowly turn into apprehension. 

“Heard what, exactly?”

“I heard what you said to Ginny, about why you really moved out.”

Hermione seemed to sag a bit, before stepping forward to fall heavily into one of the massive, carved teak chairs. “And here I was hoping to avoid all the messy bits.”

“I just don’t understand why you would keep that from me.”

Hermione traced the rim of a small crystal goblet with her finger. “I’m sorry, Harry, I hate how terribly melodramatic it all sounds. I know you and Ollie are friends; I didn’t want there to be any hard feelings between you while he and I are trying to sort ourselves out.”

“Well, it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?” he snapped. 

Hermione looked taken aback. “Harry, I don’t understand why this changes anything. I’m sorry I wasn’t more forthcoming with you, but it’s all so frightfully awkward. I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.”

“Oh yes,” he started sarcastically. “It was obviously _ my _ feelings you were worried about when you decided to move out.”

“Harry, we’re not in our twenties anymore. As lovely as it sounds, did you think I was just going to live with you forever?” 

Yes, he realized. He had in fact thought exactly that, and he was suddenly, utterly furious that it wasn’t true. A small, cautious part of him tried to tug him back, tried to keep his mouth shut, but he paid it no heed. “I didn’t bloody think you’d choose your boytoy over your best friend.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped, as though she couldn’t believe the words that had just come out of his mouth. In her defense, he couldn’t, either. 

“Are you serious?” she asked quietly, giving him a chance to retract, to apologize. He merely looked at her, stubborn and defiant and more drunk than he ought to be for this particular confrontation. Or perhaps just drunk enough. 

“How could you say that to me?” Her voice rose with each word, louder and sharper. “I have been choosing you since I was _ eleven_. My entire life has revolved around you! Around keeping you alive! And happy! Can you honestly say the same?”

Harry leapt to his feet. “Of course I can! I might as well get 'what would Hermione do' tattooed on my arm. I wouldn’t have seen this side of seventeen if you hadn’t decided I was worth it. Do you think I don’t live my life trying to measure up to whoever it is you see when you look at me?”

“Don’t talk like that!” she said fiercely. “Don’t you dare say you aren’t worth it. I would do it all over again in a heartbeat.”

“I don’t want you to do any of that!” he exclaimed. “I just want you to love me!”

“Of course I love you, you idiot!”

“You _ what_?”

They both paused, breathing heavily. Hermione’s hair crackled, her magic having risen steadily with her temper. 

“Fuck,” she said, dropping her head into her hands as she slid back into her chair. 

“You mean it,” he said tentatively. “Not just as friends.”

“Yes,” she said hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”

“But, Hermione, why would you-? What could you possibly be sorry about? Hermione, I love you. I’m so fucking mad about you, I can’t stand it.” He wanted to run around the table to her, wanted to sweep her up, but he was shaking too hard, and she hadn’t responded. 

She peered up at him finally, eyes wet with unshed tears. “What are we supposed to do now?”

He felt off-kilter. Surely she ought to seem happier? “You break things off with Wood and move back to Grimmauld with me where you belong.”

“Yes, Harry, because things are just going to fall in place with a wave of your wand,” Hermione said sarcastically. “I’m in a relationship with another person, someone I care about who I’ll be hurting very deeply. And I don’t even know where any of this is coming from. How do I know this isn’t just a reaction to me having less time for you? Maybe you’re just jealous and you’re confusing it for love.” 

“Don’t you dare tell me what I fucking feel,” Harry snapped. “I have never lied to you and I don’t plan to start now. I love you, and you’re mental if you think I’m just going to stand back and watch Oliver fuck you now that you’ve admitted you love me, too.” 

Hermione drew in a sharp breath. “What did you say?”

His heart sank as he realized what exactly had come out of his mouth, and he wasn’t stupid enough to hope that Hermione hadn’t grasped its import immediately. “I didn’t-”

“Harry, have you been spying on me?” she cut him, outraged. 

“No!” he cried. “It was just a few seconds, I swear.”

Hermione pushed back from the table abruptly, refusing to meet his eyes. “I need to go home.”

“I’m sorry,” he said miserably. “I’m a cad, and you can punish me however you like, just as long as you come back. I love you, Hermione. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, I’ll do anything to make that happen.”

Hermione sighed. “I believe you, Harry. But it’s been a very long night, and I think we both need a little time. I’ll see you in a day or two, alright?”

Her gaze softened enough for him to feel treacherously hopeful. 

“Please,” he said. And she nodded before apparating away. 

* * *

He didn’t hear from her for three days. At least, he thought it was three days, but firewhiskey made it difficult to mark the passage of time. 

He was hopeful the first day. She loved him. She’d said so. Of course she’d come back. 

By the second day, he’d grown increasingly despondent. Obviously he’d been too late. Why would Hermione want to tie herself to a moody, paranoid bastard when she could be with someone uncomplicated like Wood? A clearly unselfish lover - _ not _ that he was going to think about that, thank you very much - and someone who’d had the sense to snap her up as soon as she smiled up at him. Not an idiot like Harry, who’d wasted two decades ignoring what was right in front of him. He should have taken her to the Yule Ball. He should have kissed her on the train, the very first day they met, toads be damned. 

He got angry on the third day. He may have been a blind idiot, but Hermione had been worse! She’d loved him and still found someone else! She was probably in bed with Wood at that very moment, letting him shag her into staying…

“Gracious, Harry. Did you manage to finish Sirius’ entire stash? You smell like you burnt down a distillery.” 

For a moment, Harry thought he must be dreaming. He lifted his head up from the table blearily, and tried to focus on the figure before him. “Mione?” he croaked.

“I hope you weren’t expecting anyone else” she said wryly. “Because you’ve shut the wards and your floo down. Not even Ron managed to get in, and he made a fairly respectable attempt.”

She looked absolutely gorgeous in the sunlight streaming in from the front hall. For a moment, he forgot his anger, and was simply soaked in the sight of her. Then he realized what she was wearing, and the rage came back in.

“Is that his fucking jersey?” he growled. “Why the fuck did you walk in here with his name on your back?”

Hermione merely sauntered over and sat herself in his lap, carding her fingers through his hair as though he hadn’t said a word. One smooth, olive shoulder was bare, the neck of the jersey dipping well past respectability. He could feel the blood rush south as he realized she was wearing nothing at all underneath. 

“Hermione,” he said in a strangled voice, as she adjusted her perch, still oddly focused on tidying his hair. “Hermione, for the love of all that is holy, please tell me you didn’t come here straight from his bed.”

He fisted the jersey, tugged it gently until it strained against her breast, the nipple outlined in stark relief through the soft fabric. 

She placed the softest touch of her lips to the corner of his mouth. “And if I did? Would you still love me if I let someone else touch me, Harry?”

“Fuck,” he hissed, as he yanked the jersey down fully, and latched his mouth onto her exposed breast, sucking hard. He swirled his tongue around the nipple before dragging his teeth across it none too gently. She gasped as he seized her hips, grinding her down against his thigh as he continued his attack. 

He pulled back abruptly, watching her shiver as the cold air hit the wet skin of her breast, and hesitated only slightly before reaching for the collar and ripping it down to the hem. His magic must have enhanced brute strength as the ends fell cleanly away, leaving him with a mostly naked Hermione in his grasp. He swooped down and kissed her hard before she could react, forcing entry into her mouth. He stood up with her in his arms, chest pressed tightly to his, and carried her over to the settee, turning her to face away from him in his lap.

“It doesn’t matter, Hermione,” he said roughly, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck. “I want to know about every bloke who’s had his filthy hands and mouth on you.” He let one hand ghost over her breast, teasing gently, while the other snaked down to her sopping cunt. She let out a broken little moan that shot straight to his cock. “I want to know about every fucker you’ve let inside you,” he spat, punctuating each word with a thrust of his fingers. “You’re going to tell me every dirty thing anyone’s ever done to you, starting with Viktor fucking Krum.” He pressed against her clit with his thumb, and stilled his fingers. 

“Harry, please,” Hermione whimpered. 

“Was he the first to make you come, Mione?”

“Y-yes, yes, Harry, please, I need more.”

“Tell me how. Was it his fingers?” he asked, picking up the rhythm once more. 

“No,” she whispered, back arching as he rewarded her by going deeper. “It was his mouth-oh!”

“Good girl,” he said, pulling his fingers out completely. 

“Harry!” she protested. 

“We’re not done yet,” he said, lifting her away with an arm as he undid his trousers, letting his cock spring free. He pumped once, twice, until his shaft was slick with what she’d drenched his fingers. 

“Who took you the hardest?” he asked, lowering her onto his cock inch by merciless inch. 

“C-cormac,” she breathed, squirming against him, desperate for friction. He sheathed himself completely, and the heat of her made him dizzy. He pressed into her as deeply as he could, as though he could anchor her to himself. He lifted her up again slowly, only to impale her again, working his way into a steady thrust. 

“Soft and slow?”

“Draco Malfoy,” she said, eyes screwed tight. Harry started at that, but was too overcome by the wet, hot, glorious feel of her on his cock at last. 

“Who made you scream every time?”

Hermione grasped his hand, interlacing their fingers and grinding the heel of it against her. “Oliver,” she cried. Harry turned her head to kiss her again, losing himself in the taste of her - sweet on the back of his tongue and salt on the tip. He slammed into her in a mad frenzy, abdomen clenched, her little gasps reducing him to _ harder _ and _ faster_.

“It doesn’t matter, none of it matters,” he whispered furiously. “They’ll never touch you again. I’ll fuck you every single way they did but better. You’re mine now, Hermione. You’re fucking mine and you’ll always be mine.”

She clenched around him, pressing her mouth to his as she came, and Harry followed into oblivion soon after. 

* * *

Something was tugging at his hair. Someone, he realized, opening his eyes to meet Hermione’s steady gaze. 

She was propped up half on top of him, wild hair and impassive stare putting him distinctly in mind of Crookshanks. Not that he’d ever tell her that. 

“Hermione?” he ventured. “You’re going to have to tell me what happens next. If you don’t want me, I’d prefer you just AK me now so that I can die happy.” 

“I don't remember you being this dramatic at school,” she mused fondly, ruffling his hair and leaning forward to kiss his forehead. “Though I suppose the jersey was a bit of a mixed message. ”

Harry scrambled up to a half-sitting position. “You planned that?” he asked incredulously. 

Hermione grinned. “I know it didn’t make for the most romantic first time, but I thought we ought to work some of the kinks out first. Wasn’t that more fun than fighting?”

He frowned at her. “Just to be clear, you’re not angry?”

She snuggled into his side, and he wanted to weep with how good it felt. “I was. But I also found myself a bit...bothered? I couldn’t get the idea of you watching me out of my head. It was terribly confusing.”

Harry wanted to laugh at the blush staining her cheeks. 

“Besides, it was a little bit my fault, too. You were perfectly clear when you explained how the mirrors worked, and I should have remembered to turn them off. I suppose I oughtn't to blame you for being a little curious. Though I can’t say I was expecting it to be such a kink for you,” she added.

He snorted. “I feel like I’ve spent my whole life watching you belong to other people. I’m enough of a masochist that it all sort of twisted together in my brain.” He darted a worried glance towards her. “I meant what I said, though. I’ll admit the idea of you with someone else...it certainly does something for me. But I don’t think I could handle sharing you now. You’re too precious to me.”

Hermione smiled and kissed him sweetly. “Oh, Harry. I’m not ashamed of my past, and I’m not averse to, well, exploring past memories a bit more. But I don’t want to share you, either.”

Harry could feel the warmth spreading throughout his body. He turned to hide what was surely a ridiculous grin in her thick, dark hair, pulling her in as close as was humanly possible. “Are you properly mine, then?”

“If you’ll have me,” she said simply. “I’m afraid you’ve quite ruined your friendship with Oliver, though.”

“S’alright,” he said, voice muffled. “We’ll find him a nice girl.”

They lay entwined and content, until Hermione tapped his chest. “Harry, love? Could you maybe convince Ron to help me move back in? Only I'm sure he’ll try to curse me if I ask again so soon.”

Harry only laughed, too pleased with the world to argue.

* * *


End file.
